Photo of the Week

Happiness is a warm (son of a) gun.


I Tell My Mom All of My Secrets

The day I flew home from Austin, my mother and I got into a massive fight. The kind of fight where doors slam and expletives are thrown at each other like weapons. The kind where my mother sobs and I bite my lip so hard it bleeds. The kind of fight we used to have when I was sixteen.

Like most fights, it started over a simple miscommunication. Apparently, while I was away Archer slept through the night, ate everything that was put in front of him and was happy and perfect and wonderful and "the most pleasurable human being to be around."

His perfect behavior ended the second I came home when immediately Archer turned to tantrums, refused to sleep or eat anything but cheerios.

"While you were gone I gave him 100% of my attention," my mother said. "Maybe that's why he was so good."

I took this to mean that because I was unable to give Archer 100% of my attention, I was a shitty mother and therefore my child hated me and refused to sleep or eat or be happy and that one day he would grow up to curse the day he had ever been born because I was unable to be the kind of mother my mom was, the kind who dropped everything for her children, whose world revolved around them...

That was when I exploded...

"Well, I'm sorry that I can't be the mother you were, okay?"

My mother then exploded back. Because that was not what she meant. Of course it wasn't. But I was inconsolable and hysterical and felt compelled to take all of my shit out on her. I had so much on my mind, so many secrets I was sick and tired of keeping. Bottles of anger and fear and emotion I hadn't the chance to expel until that moment.

And it felt good.

As a teenager, these epic mother-daughter battles would always end with my mother and I side by side on my bed, telling each other our secrets. I would open my journal up to her and read her my bad poetry until the sun rose and sometimes we would just lie next to one another, eyes swollen shut from crying, voices gone from screaming, holding hands and humming along to the stereo.

It had been years since we stayed up all night, fighting and screaming and crying and hugging and whispering.

"It's a school night," she would say. "You need to get up early." Except we'd keep talking. Because it felt good.

"Archer will be up, soon," She said to me the other night. "You really need your sleep." Eventually I did go to sleep. And I slept. I really slept, with a clear head and a free heart.

I have written many a time here and elsewhere about my fear of one day having a daughter. I believe in the bond between mother and son and always thought I would be a better mother with boys because I'm a better friend to boys and most often prefer their company over that of women. I was always afraid that I might give birth to myself, that karma would be the bitch that came back to haunt me. That one day like me, my daughter would turn 16 and go wild.

But in retrospect there was a lot more to my teenage-hood than that. There was a lot more to my relationship with my mother and her relationship with me...

There was an open window and two silhouettes holding hands through the night. And the one on the left was the daughter, telling her mother everything-- all her deepest secrets and the things she had kept even from herself. And on the right was the mother and all her wisdom and love, telling me everything would be okay.

And for the first time in my life, side by side next to my mother, stinking still of vodka tonics and cigarette smoke from my getaway, I looked up at the glow-in-the-dark stars of my old bedroom ceiling and thought, "maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have a daughter, someday." And I thought about collecting her secrets and sharing my stories with her.

And then I thought about being the kind of mom my mother was for me, for Archer and the possible children of Christmas future, the kind of mother you can have a breakdown with and be mended back with love, as a child, a teenager and even as an adult.

Because sometimes mothers need their mothers, too.


Lucky Numbers

(gratuitous archer in a swing photo)

The 1-Second Film:

Nirvan, a friend of mine has just finished work on the new site for his non-profit film project, The 1-Second Film. Find out how you can be a producer, while supporting the Global Fund for Women. Join the ranks of some of Hollywood's finest. Check out the One Second Film, here.

Smith's 6-Word Memoir:

If you haven't already submitted your six-word memoir, do so here. A collection of the best six-word memoirs will be published by Harper-Collins in '08.

Blogher 07:

I was skeptical last year so I decided not to go BUT I'm very much looking forward to this year's festivities, Wooohoo! Who else is going?


After the Rain Came the Shower

About seven months ago I wrote this about one of my best friends who found out she was unexpectedly pregnant:
... It's okay to feel as if you are sleep-walking, sick to your stomach, speechless. There is nothing wrong with long silences and blank thoughts. There is nothing wrong with being afraid.

I got the phone call just after 6am and had been sleeping. I knew the second I saw her name on caller I.D. that she was pregnant. Just like I knew that Kendra was pregnant when the phone rang a year previous, on a similar Sunday morning, too early for phone calls from single girls.

I got in my car in my pajamas and went to pick Meredith up-- to talk her off the ledge that magically appears when two peed on sticks amount to four double lines.

Forget morning sickness and weight-gain and childbirth, the hardest part is right now. Today. Trying to understand the largeness of the situation, deciding that the truth is actual, trusting the double lines, saying aloud, "I'm pregnant." There is nothing more difficult than unknowingly crossing the line, becoming two people overnight, touching your body and coming to terms with the fact that inside, a face is forming and with it, a new world- a giant door that leads to everywhere, a wild jungle and OH MY GOD. Yes, everything is different, now.

"What am I going to do?" She asked and I shook my head. Because I didn't know what she was going to do but at least I knew how she felt. And I knew it wouldn't be long until the fear passed and became excitement, until she was pushing forward into the metamorphisis of pregnancy and motherhood. I glanced at my baby in the back seat. He smiled.

Pregnancy was the most amazing physical experience of my life. I cannot imagine never experiencing those forty weeks of creation, the changes and the swelling of self. I cannot imagine my body without it's stretched tattoos and belly flab. I cannot imagine my life without Archer.

She cried so I told her that everything would be okay because it is... it always is. No matter what the choice. Or the fucked-up-ness of it all. Or the feeling of being totally lost and overwhelmed with fear, staring adulthood in the face with eyelids pinned. This too shall pass... as they say, but the epilogue to that is that ...when it does, the heart will open.

When I first found out I was pregnant I couldn't say so aloud for several days. I choked on my words and swallowed air in their place. It wasn't until I had written the words down on paper 100 times that I could finally repeat them aloud. "I. AM. PREGNANT." Me, pregnant. I am going to have a baby. There is something alive in my body and one day it will have a name. Holy Shit! How is it possible?

I remembered then. I remember now. Like it was yesterday. Being in the car with Meredith, holding her hand. Being in the car on the phone with Kendra. Being in the car alone, on my way to Hal's apartment with a purse full of Clear Blue Easy sticks and hands that couldn't stop shaking.

I looked into your eyes today and I so remembered the feeling... I remember the six pregnancy tests in a row and me unbelieving. I remember shaking my head for a half an hour, huddled under the sink and how my bedroom looked, messy on the other side of the room. I remember the damn dog next door and how he wouldn't stop barking and how for once, I was grateful. The silence was too much to bear. I remember feeling like my life was over. The end...
...And I looked into your eyes, at your hair and thought, "you too will remember this moment. You will remember what you were wearing, faded work-out pants and sneakers. The banana clip in your hair. You will remember the smell of my car when I picked you up. You will remember the way the world suddenly looked different. A shade off. A new tint. You will remember it like yesterday. Like the turning-point in your life."

Over the weekend I attended Meredith's baby shower. And I don't think I have, in fourteen years seen her so happy. Beautiful and full of life and fearless-- counting down the days before her baby boy's arrival.

Life is beautiful. So is the wacked-out winding path that leads to growing up-- being able to help one another off ledges and supporting each other as women and mothers with bellies the size of pumpkins and so much love.

...You will look into the eyes of something that was a part of you, is a part of you. A gift. A surprise. A beginning. And once again you will be speechless. And then I can congratulate you again and in a whole new way, you won't know what to say.

Standing by to watch the fear melt away, as the cold and wet of rain becomes the joy and liveliness of baby showers.

Most definitely your life has changed directions and the compass is all out of wack. Most definitely I know that you will find your way.

Spring is here. And soon, so will Nolan be.


HostSecret Week X


Straight From the Bottle Recaps:

It's Nanny O'Clock, Mofos!: The hunt for the Nanny begins, and the future looks glorious...
Mothers Who Make Bead Necklaces and Sip Coffee at Sidewalk Cafes: We're all working moms. We're all working on something other than making our children happy. And that's okay. (Somewhere along the line it seems women have forgotten that.)



Photo of the Week

Red hat down.


Nanny 911

For those of you who follow Straight From the Bottle (my other blog-- yes, just click on the giant photo of my face in the left-sidebar and there you are...) you will know that for the last week-ish I've been nanny shopping: sifting through the local L.A. lakes and rivulets for someone to help me.

Biting off more than I am able to chew, I have been on the verge of breakdown. Unable to sit still for so much as two seconds. Forgetting to eat. To swallow. To breathe. It came down to two options:

1. Get some help.
2. Steal a Maserati from the Paramount lot, (there are 7856 Maseratis in the Windsor gate parking area ALONE) pick up a hooker (preferably a bob-haired Suicide Girl) and go on a Bonnie and Clyde lesbo crime mission until we get busted and/or drive off of a ledge Thelma and Louise style...

Option #1 seemed like the more "adult" option so we had a "family meeting" and decided that in order to keep my head from exploding, a helper was in order. A nanny/babysitter/relief pitcher to aid in my SAHM needs so I have at least a few hours a week for W. The kind of W that is uninterrupted and requires (but is not limited to) headphones and triple soy lattes and getting lost in pages of manuscript so I can meet my deadlines with flying colors. So I can be proud of my work instead of afraid of it... putting so much pressure on myself to craft the perfect paragraph in sporadic windows of time that I end up working myself into a frenzy with pages of endless vowels and no consonants.

And so today, as I ramble on about having no time to ramble on, I am happy to report that I found someone. A nanny! And she's sweet and adorable and will start work next week, leaving me with ten whole hours of weekday work-time at my favorite office. And by this time next week, I'll be exhaling....

No more bitching and screaming and acting like a child and questioning and feeling estranged from myself. And torn. And overwhelmed. No more public tantrums or panic attacks or feeling like I have to do it all. Because no one can. It's impossible

So I forfeit my control-freakdom and acquiesce to relief that is help...

Because I need help, even if only for two half-days a week, so I can find myself again. Or at the very least, some of the missing pieces.


One More Reason To Educate Your Children About Sex...

The other day someone found my site by searching:

"Why doesn't a girl have a dick?"

Hmmm... This is a tricky one. I've been trying to formulate my thoughts so I can respond in an enlightened and non-sarcastic way but that would be impossible so I have instead turned to some interesting links to help poor souls such as one such random google-dude find their way to the "hole truth."

Hours later, someone (an old high school lover, perhaps?) decided to hit on my mom by searching:

"Wendy Woolf topless"

Unfortunately there are no topless photos of my mother, at least not on this website... I don't think.

In other news, when you search "pooping girls" you will find Girl's Gone Child in the top five searches, which means I should probably just retire from the blogosphere right this second. My dreams have been realized. I AM the poop girl.

Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen... I'd like to thank my son for pooping all day long. And my dogs for their poop. And I'd like to thank you for reading my poo-poo poems and raps and rants about poop...

Unfortunately, it seems I have already accepted my trophy.... Sigh...

And on that note, I'd like to wish Miss Scarlett a very happy 20th/cancer free birthday. Muah.


Hopped Up On Pop

Obsessions are ephemeral these days. Books come and go like fair-weathered friends and this week's trash will soon become next week's treasure. Just as The Very Quiet Cricket (Archer's beloved book of champions) has quite literally been pushed under the couch to make way for a new and classic tale of rhyme and father-son relations: Hop on Pop, which according to Wikipedia is an existential odyssey contrasting the child's desire for freedom and the intrinsic need to satisfy parental authority figures. The rhyming couplets represent at once an acceptance of cultural form and tradition and a free-form explosion of self-actualizing creation...

I mean... Psh! No wonder, right?

I have a weakness for Hop on Pop because as a little girl it was one of my favorite books and when Archer first hopped on my lap and asked me with his eyes to read it to him, I was thrilled. We'd crack open the book and read it cover to cover. From ... Up Pup. Pup is Up to... Ask me tomorrow but not today! And then again. And again. And... again.

Until one very ordinary day when Hop on Pop was reduced to one single page--a page that was as horrifying as it was interesting.... As hilarious as it was sad. As insightful as it was superfluous:

The Cactus Page


"NO PAT NO Don't sit on that!"


Cactus! Ahhh! No!!!!

These are the words Archer is "saying" in his way which sounds like: Eeeeeek! Deeeeeeekikikiki!!! Aaiiioioiiiiioooiiuuuiiiiooooooo in a very high-pitched maniacal way. He then looks up at me, laughs, points and screams again. "Eeeeeiiieeeeeeiiiiiiooooooo!" before punching Pat in the head for being such a jackass and sitting on the cactus. (Duh!)

It was cute at first. Actually, it was adorable but as the days have passed and my life has been reduced to screaming gibberish at Pat and his cactus, it has become exhausting and not-cute-anymore.

"Arch. Dude. Don't you want to read something else? Go Dog Go, perhaps? I hear there's a wicked dog party in a tree and everyone's going to be there!"

"Ahhhhhh!!! Blaaaaaaaaahblahcactus NOOOOOOO!"

I seriously doubt the cactus fetish will last much longer. It usually works out so that the day I post about one thing that "thing" is replaced with something new and even more deranged. I digress... For now I've taken to hiding Hop on Pop under the dog's bed. Because No Pat. No! can just as easily be replaced for Go Dog Go.

And at this point I don't even care if Go Dog Go is lacking the "existential odyssey"of Hop on Pop. As long as there isn't a cactus, I'm down for the cause.


HostSecret Week IX


Straight From the Bottle Recaps:

Poop Here It Is! (I thought you knew): A humble tale of being handed poop as a present and not knowing whether to say "thank you" or throw up.
On The Eve Of My Departure: Packing bags and thoughts before leaving for SXSW.
The Bittersweet Taste of Freedom: Confessions of a GGC who misses being "w"... and boozing all night in distant lands.



Photo of the Week

Archer jumps in puddles at La Jolla Cove


SXSW: The Hangover

The amazing Jen Robbins of Jenville and Cooking With Rockstars, Jason Swihart of Snowhugger and Mobilhomme, Me of GGC. (Photo stolen from Jason's flickr set.)

You know that feeling you have in your gut after a really amazing date? And your roommate is on the couch waiting up for you and she's all, "tell me everything!" And you can't. Because what can you say? Sometimes moments are more powerful then words, even for someone like me who lives betweens words and letters and follows elipsis like stone paths across pages and screens. Sometimes you just have to wink and say "It was nice. It was a good time."

Dana Robinson, BFF of and manager of NBC Online, Scott Watson, master Disney Imagineer, Me of (Photo stolen from Dana's flickr set.)

SXSW was my perfect date. So I'm not going to even try to recap my adventures. One, because they are slightly fuzzy and two, because, it's impossible. ... Instead I'm going to highlight the awesome awesomes that I mentioned in my last post. New friends and idols who didn't fall.


Because Smith is in the process of collecting six-word memoirs (go on and submit yours, here), I will sum-up one of my favorite Smith moments with a six-word memoir of my own:

4am pizza run in the rain

I sort of forced the Smith posse to adopt me and we ran around all over Austin sharing drinks and gossiping in dark corners of shadowy bars. (See right ---> Me with Larry Smith of Smith... Posing? I guess?)

If you're not familiar with Smith, get over there asap. Smith is all about the art of storytelling: Everyone has a story. Tell yours here. Smith was founded by super hero, Larry Smith, an experienced writer who has artfully created a mecca for both professional and novice storytellers. Supporting Smith is supporting the craft of the memoir. The truth. The universal "Smithness" of us all. Add Smith to your list of daily reads. Get lost in the archives. You will not be disappointed.

Thank you, Larry for the pizza. And for helping me up when I tripped down the stairwell. And Rachel Fershleiser? You're one of my new favorite people on the planet. Nothing like girl talk in crowded bars. Fist to chest, sister.

Rachel Kramer Bussell:

Speaking of girl talk in crowded bars... Rachel Kramer Bussell, sex writer extraordinaire and Internet buddy turned real-life BFF was one of the people I was most looking forward to meeting. And as presumed, she did not disappoint. Her panel was brilliant. Her cleavage was fierce. She was kind and adorable and balls-out amazing.

The Cool Kids of Interwebs Publishing:

I got to meet up with my Babble boss, Rufus and his beautiful wife, Alisa who were uber-fab. I tried to sound smart in front of Joan Walsh, who was delightful and personable and statuesque. Sean Mills (The Onion) was funny as shit. As was Ricky Van Veen (College Humor.)

I also want to send e-hugs to some other amazingly awesome new Friends, Jason (above), Rob, Jen, Scott and probably more awesomes that I'm totally leaving out (The BBC guys for instance. Super cool dudes. Totally forget their names.)

Miles and Greg of LonelyGirl15:

Spent a rainy-night, fleeing crowds with Miles and Greg. Ended up at a dive bar gossiping until the wee hours of lightningstorm 2007. Loved these guys. It's not every day you get to make friends with pop-culture icons with crazy-brilliant brains. Looking forward to getting together in upcoming days here in the Ellay, even if we have to meet halfway between the east and westside. (Psh... Westsiders.)

Neal Pollack:

I heart Neal Pollack and am grateful that he invited me to be his sidekick-biotch in Alterna-parenting. We even got to catch a movie, which was very funny.

Nothing but love for the Nealster. Even if we got robbed of our Q&A at our very "Alternative" panel. (More photos to come... )

I also am told there's a podcast of our panel somewhere but I'm too lazy/scared to hear myself say "like" a thousand times to dig it up so you can hear it.

And speaking of cool blogging parents, I attended the parent bloggers 2.0 panel and got to meet some of my favorite parentbloggers, hug Danny several times and meet his lovely hot wife.

I also almost met up with Jonathon every night but somehow we managed to keep missing each other. Rats!

And lastly... because I don't even know where to begin:

Romi Lassally:

Several weeks ago Romi contacted me to partner with her on an amazing business/creative endeavor/venture and SXSWi was our first in the flesh meeting/side-by-side networking extravaganza. I'm not going to even attempt to put into words my love for this woman. She's mentor material and I can't believe my luck that I get to be her partner in crime. It isn't often you meet someone and just click but Romi and I were insta-friends and I am delighted to pre-announce announce our endeavor True Mom Confessions which will launch as a website (in the upcoming weeks) followed by a radio show followed by total world domination.

Stay tuned for more information/details in the next few days(ish) as we haul ass to cross t's and dot i's and work out the details with our designers. (Get your confessions ready, ladies. And doncha worry, it's anonymous.)


There is so much going on right now. In my head and my life and my work. Most of which I can't talk about or don't want to. Not yet. Instead I find myself storing moments and feelings and questions in mason jars and placing them carefully under my pillow, in the junk drawer beside my desk, in the back pocket of my jeans.

I'm home now and I seem to be sick with some kind of cold-thingy. Allergic to Los Angeles or maybe I'm just coming down off my buzz. It's hard to taste freedom and live without responsibilities for five days and then come back and be as overwhelmed as I was before. Maybe this is what a midlife-crisis feels like (except I'm nowhere near middle-aged)... If only I could afford a hot blonde with plastic ta-tas and a Ferrari.

Ah...Such is the roller coaster of life, vomit in my hair and all.


SXSW: The Update

Is it bad if I kind of just want to not come home really? And drink free vodka tonics until the breaka-breaka dawn? Every night/morning? And attend panels with blisters from broken heels from a night of dancing in gravel? And wear huge sunglasses so people don't notice that my makeup is from the night before? And walk the streets of Austin at 5:00 am in the rain with no clue where I am? And make friends with teenagers who give free rides on their bike handlebars? And fly paper-airplane napkins? And hang out with awesome awesomes? And blog drunk at 3:07 am? Forever and ever until the end of time?

Because I think right about now I'm supposed to be wanting to come home. And, um...


Second to the New York Times

Ed: I know I wasn't going to post here for a few days BUT bear with me...

The following piece is something I wrote and submitted to the New York Times Op-ed section last week in response to David Brooks' piece. I never heard back, obviously, so I've posted it here, below. Because I wanted to "respond" to the piece with something other than sarcasm. Ahem.


Moshing in the Sandbox
By: Rebecca Woolf

Once upon a time none of us were parents. We went to rock concerts and smoked weed, and made out with each other on college campuses. Some of us even fell in love. Got married. Moved in together. In cramped studio apartments with two dogs and a futon. Some of us planned our pregnancies, while others (like me) did not. Some of us could afford to move into cookie-cutter neighborhoods. Some of us didn’t want to.

Once upon a time our parents went to rock concerts and smoked weed and made out with each other on college campuses. And some of them fell in love. Got married. Moved in together. In cramped studio apartments with two dogs and a futon. Some of them planned their pregnancies, while others did not. Some of them could afford to move into cookie-cutter neighborhoods and some of them didn’t want to…

My mother, like me, got pregnant young. She listened to a lot of Simon and Garfunkel and James Taylor. I knew the lyrics to “You’ve Got a Friend” before I learned the alphabet.

In those days I got on the yellow bus to go to school in my rainbow Op shorts and jelly shoes. My mother dressed me the way that came naturally to her, and on the way to school I hummed what words I remembered of “The Only Living Boy in New York.”

At a certain age, I realized that my parents were complete nerds, so I rebelled against their “lack of style,” their music and dorky Op shorts.

No! No! I will wear fluorescents, not pastels!

There comes a time in a child’s life when she must blaze her own trail. For me that meant throwing my rainbow barrettes to the wind, just like my son will soon tear the Misfits tee off his back because “skulls are so uncool, mom. Jeez.”

Fair enough.

Whatever the “hipster parenting” trend has become--which I am apparently part of (although I do not live in Silverlake… but close enough)--it isn’t anything new. And just as my parents chose to raise me in the San Diego suburbs, I choose to raise my son in urban Los Angeles, not because city living is a “fad” but because I like living in the city.

I disagree that it is selfish of me to want to rock out once in a while. Or ditch Mommy and Me class for an art opening on La Brea. I happen to love music. And fashion. And art. I want to share with my son the things that I love, not because I want to manipulate him into becoming my clone, but because I’m a parent. And that’s what parents do.

A woman doesn’t give birth and suddenly forget who she is. A man doesn’t become a father and trade his record collection for a plastic bouncy seat. And why should he? Why should I? Why should we?

Parenthood isn’t a color-by-number experience. It is not a book you read and memorize. It is not an academic sport, or a class, or a column expressed by a man who somehow believes he has the authority to tell others how to dress their children. Because contrary to what the cookie-cutter columnists suggest, life is fun. And parenthood is about experimenting with many different techniques and styles and yes, ENJOYING the ride.

Our children, no matter how “hip” we supposedly are, will find their own way by watching us find ours. And compromising our taste and work and lifestyles sets a poor example for future generations of children who will look to their parents as people, not just as mom or dad. What better reason to exert a strong sense of self?

Maybe “moshing” doesn’t have to end. I believe that a mother can still enjoy a night of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Polyphonic Spree. A dad can rock out on his guitar while his kids drum empty boxes beside him. Everything doesn’t have to be so literal. So serious. So anti. “This” isn’t a generational rebellion. It’s a lifestyle. Which is why it’s so interesting to see our actions frowned upon by middle-aged men who were never interested in “moshing” to begin with. Who have instead decided to label us as something that isn’t so different from what our parents were.



Ready? Break!

T- four days until my first vacation on my own in four-hundred years and as Jonathon pointed out in my last post, not a moment too soon. I need a break so I am getting one. For the next week I'm going to stay away from this blog because when I don't post I feel horrible guilt and that's just stupid. I'm flattering myself to even think that people give a damn if I miss a day or two. Honestly, I just need some time NOT to reflect publicly... I need some me time, yo. So I'm giving myself a week or so to put my hands over my head and submit to silence.

I need a drink. And a great big bed and an alarm clock that rests unplugged on the Hyatt Regency bed stand. I need to re-bond with one of my best friends who I never see anymore. Who at this very moment is packing her suitcase full of wine. That we will drink. All of it. In bed.

And who knows? Maybe something really awesome and inspiring will happen in Austin. Maybe something I won't be able to wait to blog about! But nice try, self, I'm not gonna. Because I think I might have a problem with announcing myself to the world. And I shouldn't want to blog about everything.

And as I work feverishly on a book that may as well be a collection of photos of me naked, in terms of putting myself out there, I wonder if there is a part of me at all that's still sacred.

This is not to say that I probably won't blog a teensy bit from Austin. And I'll still be over at Babble but the goal here is for me to try to stay away from my blog for a whole week. Wish me luck.

I'm hoping that with distance and a little bit of air I can get my head straight. I can figure out where my priorities are and how to juggle and smile at the camera and pretend like every thing's okay, which I'm usually REALLY good at doing. Duh. I've lived in L.A. long enough to play the game.

So here I am smiling... exiting stage left.

Thank you for understanding that mama needs a vacation, and I hope-hope that if you or anyone you know will be attending SXSW Interactive/Film, that you/they will come and say hi. (I'm a hugger, y'all.) Once again, I'll be "in conversation" with Alternadad, Neal Pollack. For info, click here.

Godspeed my friends... Until next week, then. Until next week...


HostSecret Week VIII


Straight From the Bottle Recaps:

If for whatever reason the above jpg can't speak for itself...
A Little Bit Angry, A Little Bit Rock & Roll: Archer rocks the living room and the crowd (me) goes wild...



Photo of the Week

Yesterday was the most beautiful day we've had all year. This photo doesn't do it justice...

Charlotte, Jackson, and Archer play swings. (And me, but I was taking the photo.)


Fear is a Fool

The following clip perfectly exemplifies the missed mark between adults and teenagers. The unbelievable lack of understanding and knowledge. The fear that forms a most dangerous wedge between parents and their kids, the media and it's youth.

Mind you, the clip comes from small town North Dakota but I don't see that as any excuse for this unbelievable idiocy-- for the tone and complete mismark. For labeling and using false information based on myspace "quizzes" and online chain-farce, and teenagers who are completely fucking with the newscasters.

Just watching this clip makes me want to regress and hate my parents by default for being adults. And then I remember that I'm an adult so I kind of want to hate myself. I must be emo.

I digress...

We need to open our eyes, people. We ask ourselves why we are so afraid? So afraid for our country and our kids and the "shit" that's out there.

Raise the terror report to Orange. Kids are wearing tight clothes and crying. A point system? A fashion trend turned deadly?

You want an example of a country that grows fear faster than corn? Maybe we should be afraid of ourselves and what we are capable of, disconnected from our children's lives and relying on news briefs and Oprah to tell us what the hell is going on.

Listen to your kids. Trust your teenagers. Don't be afraid to flip the finger to news briefs whose only mission (evidently besides proving their complete lack of today's teens) is to make you afraid of your child. And their tight pants. And hair. And safety pin necklace.

Thankfully, videos like this soon become youtube cult hits. Thankfully the "dangerous emo kids" can respond with eye-rolls and "reporters are soooo lame." My only hope is that they will grow up and REMEMBER what it felt like to be a teenager. Because somehow? The majority of today's adults seem to have forgotten

Hopefully parents can "get with the times" if only to call bullshit when they see it. Because it churns my stomach to think that parents are judging their kids based on the lies the media feeds them on the 10 o'clock news.